


Can't Pronounce It, Not Buying It

by Kryptaria, rayvanfox



Series: Two Harleys and a Pickup [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cats, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, IKEA, IKEA Furniture, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meatballs.</p><p>That's all they knew, going in. Big mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Can’t pronounce it, not buying it 不会读，就不买](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2711180) by [blakjc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakjc/pseuds/blakjc)



> We love you guys! Thanks so much for the kudos and feedback on Critical Feline Mass, encouraging us to continue in this 'verse.
> 
> And thanks to zephyrfox for the post-migraine beta. We love you, too!  
> ~~~

“That...” Bucky says as he takes off his sunglasses, “is _not_ a furniture store.”

At first glance, Steve has to agree. To call it ‘huge’ feels like too much of an understatement. He tries to slot it into his military background, and all he can come up with is a drydock for an aircraft carrier.

The so-called ‘store’ is a huge concrete bunker with only a few windowed doorways. Everything else is sleek grey, with a falsely cheerful blue and yellow sign. The theme is carried into the parking bollards, the shopping carts, and even the giant blue bags that some people are toting through the parking lot.

“If there’s a zombie apocalypse, we’re holing up there,” Bucky adds, giving Steve a look that implies he’s possibly serious.

Steve grabs hold of Bucky’s hand as they walk to the entrance. He’s about to tell Bucky that’s silly, but then he remembers Nat’s insistence that the store has _everything_ and Clint’s excitement about the fact that they serve meatballs, so it might actually be a good refuge in the event of... _“_ Zombie apocalypse? Really? You of all people should know that World War Three will happen before that, Buck.”

“CONOP 8888-dash-eleven,” Bucky says, the military parlance still sliding easily from his mouth. “Pentagon concept of operations for Counter Zombie Dominance. This place has all the hallmarks of a good temporary base of operations. Good line of sight, major transport hubs nearby, all that.” He gives Steve’s hand a squeeze as they approach the airlock style entrance doors. With his free hand, he reaches back to hook his sunglasses into the neckline of his shirt, at his nape. “Besides, Barton said something about meatballs?”

Steve stops still and stares at Bucky, and their arms stretch out between them when Bucky doesn’t stop right away. He looks back and tugs Steve’s arm with a questioning look, and Steve just grins like a fool and pulls him close for a quick kiss. _Meatballs_ , Steve thinks fondly. Bucky's hot, smart, and knows his priorities. Speaking of... “A new bed frame and a dining room table, _then_ food and figuring out what else we need.”

Never one for playing fair, Bucky unleashes the full force of his puppy dog eyes on Steve, and his voice actually gets a little catch as he says, “But Steeeeeve, meatballs.”

“Mission focus, Sergeant.” Steve kisses Bucky’s nose and then nudges him into walking again, mostly so he doesn’t get too distracted looking at his boyfriend’s gorgeous eyes.

Laughing, Bucky looks back over his shoulder and purrs, “You can write me up for insubordination later, sir.”

Steve should have been ready for that sort of answer. Bucky tends to cheat that way a lot — more so since he found Steve’s dress uniform in the closet they now share. But the thoughts that fill Steve’s head over the idea of disciplinary action aren’t safe while they’re out in public, so he shakes his head, even as his breath goes shallow. “If you don’t stay on task...” he begins, but there’s no way he can finish that — not while surrounded by shoppers, most of whom are families with children in tow.

Bucky squeezes his hand again — and then stops in his tracks as they breach the mob clustered near the doors. “What the _hell?_ ” he asks.

And Steve has to agree, because he can’t remember ever walking into a store, only to be confronted by a single escalator going up. There are only three escape routes that aren’t locked down: the escalator, a short corridor that he suspects leads to stairs or elevators, and a brightly colored prison for children, full of plastic playground equipment and a room full of balls.

The elevator seems to be the destination for all of the adults. Next to it is a rack of eye-watering yellow shopping bags big enough to smuggle several surface-to-air rocket launchers, paper measuring tapes, and a box of miniature pencils. Bucky snatches at a store map as Steve pulls him off to one side, out of the way of determined shoppers.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, blinking at Steve. He holds up the map, which shows a dotted path through showrooms for every room in a house and then some. At best guess, Steve suspects it’s at least an hour’s casual walk from one end to the other.

“This is...” _Insane. Amazing. Terrifying._ He can’t decide which word fits the situation best. They really do need a plan of attack for this place, or they’ll get lost. Not to mention distracted.

So that’s how they find themselves standing in that little corridor — which led to both stairs and an elevator — scribbling battle plans in military shorthand on the map of a furniture store.

 

~~~

 

“Is everything here a little...” Bucky falters, sticking close to Steve’s right side in fear that his metal arm might end up destroying thousands of... well, _things_. He’s not sure what everything is, and the labels don’t help. Half the time, the letter ‘o’ has dots over it, and there are accents everywhere. His expertise in Russian isn’t any help because he’s never been sent to kill anyone in Sweden, and he’s always been an auditory learner. Nobody around here is speaking anything but English with an East Coast drawl.

Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s back and maneuvers them around a display of sofas that look like they’re built for children. Somehow, they manage not to kick the three kids that tear past right in front of them. “No, it’s _a lot_. I’ve never seen so much stuff.”

“It’s all so _tiny_ ,” Bucky protests. He hasn’t seen anything so far that he’d trust to hold his own weight, much less Steve’s, since Steve’s got thirty-odd pounds of solid muscle over Bucky. And he sure as hell hasn’t seen anything he’d trust to hold both of them, even if they were behaving themselves. Which, truth be told, they’re pretty bad at.

They follow the winding path through the World of Sofas to the corner, where there’s a spacious fake living room. It’s trendy and geometric and Bucky hates it at first sight, but it’s peaceful, so he darts that way, grabbing Steve’s hand to pull him along. A near-miss with a shopping cart, and they’re finally safe.

And look, a bookshelf. And a sheltered corner. Bucky grins and heads right for safety, turning at the last moment to put himself in Steve’s arms. He gets up on his toes and whispers, “See anything you want to fuck over yet, babe?”

“Oh, God.” Steve blushes, of course, and grins apologetically. “I hadn’t even thought about...”

“Durability?” Bucky suggests.

“Structural soundness?” Steve's grin widens as he surprises Bucky with a quick kiss. Steve’s brand of sweet affection still hits Bucky right in the chest, even after almost six months, leaving him just a little dazed. “Maybe older stuff at thrift stores is a better idea.”

Bucky’s skin crawls, and he asks, “Didn’t Nat show you that bedbugs link? God, if she didn’t, _don’t_. Just — No. Worst case, we get something with good cushions and put them on the floor.”

“All right, love. As long as it’s not a futon. We have a guest bedroom; the living room should have an actual couch.”

Bucky nods but doesn’t move just yet. Steve’s arms feel too good, and Bucky really needs a few more quiet seconds before diving out into the madness. They should’ve come here any day but Saturday. Bad planning.

So instead he looks around the pre-packaged living room and absently asks, “Do we need bookshelves?” He’d switched to ebooks two years ago, but these bookshelves hold _stuff_ as well. Pots and sculptures and plants.

“If you want a new TV in the living room then I should have something better for my record collection, maybe.” Steve is looking around, probably to check that they aren’t offending anyone with their PDA. When he looks back at Bucky, he’s frowning. “Bookshelves aren’t on the list.”

“Our ‘list’ was a couch, a dining room table with chairs the cats can’t scratch, and a bed,” Bucky says, finally giving in to curiosity. He takes one of the pots down from the shelf. Round, useless for anything in particular, certainly not meant to be used as a vase. “It’s like a time-out bowl for misbehaving goldfish,” he says, putting it back on the shelf. “Everything has to be cat-proof. And Barton-proof.”

Steve huffs, not actually annoyed but pretending to be. “If you hadn’t given him a key...”

Bucky shakes his head fondly. “Who do you think taught me how to pick locks?” he asks, finally working up the courage to head back out into the fray. “I gave him a key so he’d stop looking at our house as a fucking challenge.”

A goofy grin spreads over Steve’s face as steps back and takes hold of Bucky’s hand, bringing it to his lips. “Are you done pretending you want bookshelves? Can we go look at bed frames?”

Bucky can resist that grin for about a half second before he turns into his youngest sister or something. He looks down and digs the map out of his pocket. “We’re... as far as we can get from bedrooms and still be in this zip code. Media storage first,” he reads, glancing up at Steve. “We can get something for your precious records. Then we can test beds.”

Steve’s grin hasn’t shifted, but it’s tinged with the feral look in his eyes that always makes Bucky catch his breath. “Good, because I’ve got a few ideas.”

 

~~~

 

“How many _possible_ ways are there to hold up a TV?” Bucky asks, looking around dazedly.

Steve shakes his head. “Too many. You good with what we have now?”

“Perfect,” Bucky says, and follows the path to the next section.

 

~~~

 

They take refuge in one of the tiniest kitchens Steve’s ever seen. Bucky’s a little wild-eyed, fidgeting with a stainless steel jar of kitchen tools, an increasingly baffled look on his face.

Steve doesn’t blame him. They’re not even halfway through the upper floor, and already he can’t quite remember what was on their brief to-buy list.

“See, this is why I don’t cook,” Bucky says, putting the jar down hard enough that the implements inside rattle. “Because this stuff? _Nobody_ can figure out what it’s for. I mean, what the fuck? I could probably kill someone with this, but _why?_ ”

He’s pointing to what Steve thinks might be a potato masher, a donut-shaped whisk, and a pasta server in the shape of a guy with crazy hair.

_Focus, Rogers!_

Steve turns Bucky to face him, hands resting on his shoulders. “We need a better plan. The kitchen is fine. We don’t need anything from here. Let’s head straight to the bedroom area without stopping. Ready?”

Bucky nods, taking refuge in pulling out the map. It’s worn around the edges now, but he flattens it on a butcher block counter and immediately points out their current spot. “It’s just through the dining rooms. We _do_ need a table,” he says, giving Steve a quick look. When he looks back down, he smiles faintly and covers the children’s IKEA area just below the bedrooms. “And then we can skip all this. And hey, restaurant. Meatballs?”

“You promised I could get you on a bed first. But we won’t have to spend more than ten minutes with the tables.” Steve pulls Bucky’s face close, cupping his jaw and kissing his temple. He feels the map get slipped into his own back pocket, and the tension drains from Bucky’s body. They’re both better at this sort of grounding now, finding comfort in one another no matter what the world, the cats, or their friends manage to throw at them.

Bucky hums softly and turns, burying his face against Steve’s neck. “If we make it out of here, we’re not leaving the bed for the next two days, except to feed the cats. Deal?”

 _Talk about finding mission focus._ Suddenly that ‘if’ doesn’t seem so big. “Deal.”

 

~~~

 

Armed with an assortment of tags — each one hopefully corresponding to the correct piece from the dining room they’ve chosen — they reach the bedroom section and pause as if savoring their victory.

Or maybe it’s just a feeling of low-grade horror.

“And I thought the couches were small,” Bucky says.

There’s not one single bed in here that comes up to a proper height. Not that he’s averse to low beds — if nothing else, falling out during a good bout of wrestling is less painful — but there’s something to be said for a bed high enough for two guys to fuck properly over the footboard without too much strain on the knees or lower back.

Steve lets out a strangled noise, and Bucky looks over to see his face going red. “Shit,” Bucky says, looking around for any nearby children. “Did I say that out loud?”

Bucky gets a stern glance from Steve. Apparently, the answer is _yes_.

A little guiltily, he follows Steve over to a bedroom display that has a bed with a frame made of black metal rods and an oddly out-of-place wooden beam, almost like a tree branch, hanging above it. The beam has frayed rope dangling from it — no, wait, that’s part of the fancy way of holding it up — and it looks like someone set up the room for bondage play. At least that’s what it looks like to Bucky.

Given Steve’s saucer-wide eyes, to him as well. And isn’t _that_ just a fascinating new development?

Deliberately, Bucky reaches up and pokes at the branch. It sways wildly, and he jerks his hand back with a flinch, half-expecting it to come crashing down. “Yeah, that won’t work without better anchors in the ceiling. But it’s an idea, huh?” he asks, casting a sly grin at Steve, once they’re out of the branch’s danger zone.

Steve blushes as he catches Bucky’s eye and nods. “And I thought my mental images of you on a bed today couldn’t get any more naughty.”

It shouldn’t be legal, the way Steve’s words light Bucky’s blood on fire _and_ make Bucky want to wrap him in a blanket and cuddle him. Because _naughty_ is a ridiculous word, especially from a grown man — an officer with the Medal of Honor, no less — and it’s only the knowledge that they’re surrounded by families that keeps Bucky from reaching up to take hold of that tree branch and suggest a little practice on the spot.

He has to turn away so he can remember how to breathe. He gives the bed a kick and finds it a little flimsy, but that’s why they have hardware stores with extra-strong bolts, right? Steve’s good with his hands. Reinforcing a bed sounds like a good weekend project.

“It only comes in full or queen size,” Bucky says, a little disappointed, as he rifles through the tags. Not that he minds cuddling up to Steve in a small bed, but the cats are growing by the day, and they’ve taken to claiming the middle of the bed as their own. He and Steve will be pushed off altogether if that keeps up. “Bet we can find one online, though.”

“When you’re spread-eagled on the bed, you don’t quite reach the edges of a queen.” Steve’s eyes are focused on his hands running along the metal supports of the frame, and he’s clearly not listening to what he’s saying. Or he’s unaware that he’s saying it out loud.

 _Ha,_ Bucky thinks, feeling vindicated. He’s finally corrupted Steve to the point where neither of them should be allowed out in public unsupervised.

And because they _aren’t_ supervised, Bucky sits down on the edge of the mattress, right next to where Steve is standing, and he gives Steve his best innocent look, asking, “Want me to give it a try, Cap?”

Steve’s focus is instantly on him and razor-sharp. He takes a split second to look over his shoulder before turning back, his pupils blown wide. “Yes.”

Tactical mistake right there. Because Steve’s never gone out on a mission with Bucky, or he’d know there’s almost nothing Bucky won’t try at least once. Bucky kicks his legs up, twists around onto his back, and ignores the way the bed — put together by teenagers, probably — gives a little tremor. He keeps his eyes locked to Steve’s the whole time as he settles, wiggling his hips way more than is necessary, and then spreads his legs. Smirking at the way color rises in Steve’s cheeks, he looks up towards the headboard, deliberately licks his lips, then brushes his fingers against the iron bars. And sure, if he stretched, he could probably reach, and it’s not like his metal arm needs a lot of leverage, but...

When he looks back at Steve, it’s all worth it. The whole damned shopping expedition.

Because he’s clenching his fists over and over, and his gaze is raking back and forth across Bucky’s body as if trying to decide where to sink his teeth in first. The muscle at the back of his jaw twitches like he’s testing how hard to bite. Steve grabs hold of Bucky’s ankle, but before Bucky can catch his breath or _do_ anything about it, Steve blinks and looks back over his shoulder. “At ease, soldier.”

Bucky laughs in delight, thinking that he really, really does love Steve. He sits up, and Steve lets go of his ankle. Bucky swings his legs back over the edge of the mattress and stands, barely two inches away from Steve.

The second their eyes meet, Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders and touches his lips to Steve’s — not to kiss, but just to whisper, “Sir, yes, sir.”

Then Steve’s hands are clutching his hips, and his mouth is hot and demanding, and they’re probably going to be seen by some asshole right-wingers or something, and Bucky can’t even pretend to give a damn. And almost a full minute later, they’re both gasping, and every nerve ending in Bucky’s body is tingling. They’re clinging to each other to try and stay upright.

“You are a menace,” Steve accuses breathlessly, “and I love you.”

“God, you’re so fucking _perfect_ for me,” Bucky says, though it’s an effort to force the words past the tightness in his chest. “I love you _so fucking much._ ”

Steve’s eyes are shining with pure joy, and he chuckles as he backs up without letting go. He nods toward the bed and says, “So, I guess we’re getting this one, huh?”

“Only if it’s in stock, so we can fuck on it tonight. Otherwise, screw it,” Bucky decides, snatching up a tag before he herds Steve towards the exit from this area.

 

~~~

 

They forget entirely about the meatballs.


	2. Chapter 2

Stairs aren’t the most comfortable place for this, but Steve had barely made it into the foyer before Bucky was on him, hands tugging at the light jacket Steve hadn’t needed, pulling up his shirt, scratching over his back. Thankfully, the banister is strong, because Steve needs to brace his foot against it, or they’ll both go crashing down the staircase and onto the kittens that are playing with their shoelaces. He’s not even sure Bucky knows they’re there. Usually, Bucky has an almost preternatural awareness of the kittens’ location, but now he’s biting at Steve’s throat and fumbling at Steve’s jeans and thrusting against his thigh —

The doorbell’s chime cuts through them both like they’d been shot, and Steve profoundly regrets installing it.

Bucky pushes up, and God, he looks like he’s already been thoroughly fucked, hair wild and eyes wide. “Who the _fuck_ —” is as far as he gets before there’s a scratch at the deadbolt.

_Clint Barton._

Vowing to put an end to this right now, Steve untangles himself from Bucky and marches to the front door to yank it open and yell, “No, Clint —” He chokes it back just in time, because it’s Natasha, not Clint, and if Clint is dangerous with fire, Natasha could probably kill someone with a damned crayon.

“The boys are bringing your stuff in. Shouldn’t leave it in the back of a pickup like that,” she scolds, shoving a paper bag into his hands. The warm smell of fresh bagels rises from the bag, confusing Steve with the sensory dissonance. They’d skipped lunch after all, but while he’s hungry, he’d _really_ rather be...

He looks back at Bucky, who is still half-falling off the stairs. Resigned, Steve shrugs and opens the door wide to let Natasha in. “Sorry, what —” He stops himself from the rudeness of asking why she’s here — why they’re all here.

“We were at the bagel place on the corner when you came speeding past. Driving a little fast for a residential zone there, Steve,” she says, stepping into the foyer.

As she passes, she taps a finger against his chest. His shirt’s rucked up and twisted, and he flushes when he realizes there’s no possible way to explain how he looks, much less Bucky’s current state. Well, there _is_ one explanation, and Natasha’s sharp enough to put it together without any outside help.

Steve tugs down his shirt, feeling his cheeks heat up, and looks out the door as he closes it to see Clint and Sam climbing over the flat packs in the pickup. He thinks he should go out and help, but he can’t bring himself to move.

Natasha crouches down to greet the kittens. “Surprised you didn’t put a sock on the doorknob,” she says casually, throwing a sly glance at Bucky first, then at Steve.

Unhelpfully, Bucky groans and leans against the wall without getting up from the stairs. “Next time, we’re so fucking doing that,” he mutters.

Steve is mildly horrified at the idea. “Buck, no. One, privacy. Two, we shouldn’t have to worry about being walked in on in _our own damned house._ ” Steve manages not to glare at Natasha while speaking, but it’s a close thing.

“Oh, the boys wouldn’t have stuck around to watch,” Natasha says, standing back up, cuddling Cyborg. Both kittens adore her.

“Well,” Bucky says, his interested grin reappearing. “Steve, lock the door and get the fuck back over here.”

Steve just gapes at Bucky — and then at Nat, who raises an eyebrow at him again, for all the world like she expects him to actually go along with this madness.

Before he can even think about answering, the front door opens with a bang. Barton backs in, carrying one end of the boxed dining room table. “Did you guys already bring the meatballs inside?” he asks, as he and Sam tip the table sideways to get past Steve and Natasha.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, sighing as he gets to his feet. He gives Steve an innocent look that Steve knows better than to believe, especially with Bucky’s lips still dark from their desperate kissing. “Knew we forgot something.”

 

~~~

 

Nighttime in their neighborhood is usually a quiet, peaceful time. Now that it’s spring, a couple of people have started barbecuing on weekends. Pizza and Chinese delivery places do a brisk business. Kids play on the lawns and in the streets.

And for the first time in a long and bloody career as a soldier and assassin, Bucky drops to the floor and says, “That’s it. I surrender.”

“This _cannot_ be impossible,” Sam insists. He’s been the voice of reason for the last hour, as the furniture assembly party has dragged on into desperate territory. “Maybe we —”

“If you say we ought to switch...” Barton says ominously. Of them all, only Bucky knows him well enough to see the flicker of fear in his eyes. They’ve already tried switching what each of them are assembling, and all that’s done is mix up bolts and washers that were stuck in pockets.

“Be nice, Clint,” Natasha says from where she’s sprawled on the couch, watching them. It took her about twenty minutes to put together the low bookshelf that neither Steve nor Bucky could actually remember buying, though it was sized perfectly for Steve’s record collection. Since she finished, she’s been lording it over the rest of them, though she’d been kind enough to answer the door when the pizza arrived.

Steve stands up and cracks his back, then rests his hand on the top of Bucky’s head. “All right, everyone. Check your gear. Lay out all the parts and pieces in front of you, and make sure you have what you need. If anything’s missing from your kit, stop working on it until we find that piece. If it’s lost for good, give up and help out the others. We can get at least one more thing assembled tonight if we work together.”

Retired or not, Captain Rogers hasn’t lost his touch. Bucky spares a moment to give Steve a grateful smile while Sam and Barton, irrespective of their previous military ranks, both jump to comply. Only Natasha doesn’t move, except to reach out with one graceful hand and pick up her beer. “You might want to check the kitchen, boys,” she says before taking a drink.

“The kitchen?” Bucky looks up at Steve, pressing into his touch, wondering what the hell the kitchen has to do with anything.

Steve frowns down at Bucky in confusion and strokes his hair one last time before walking off to follow Nat’s suggestion. Less than a minute later, he lets out an “Oh!” that has Bucky and the others — all but Natasha — scrambling to follow. They reach the kitchen to see Cap and Cyborg, the two kitten-shaped terrors, pawing at the little gap between the fridge and the cabinet.

“Aww, look at them,” Barton says in that silly talking-to-cats voice he gets.

“Fucking thieves,” Bucky accuses, though it seems that Barton’s vocal condition is contagious, because apparently thieving kittens are as adorable as sleeping kittens.

“I haven’t had nearly enough beer to cope with being outwitted by kittens,” Sam says, stepping over the kittens to open the fridge. “Anyone else?”

 _“Here,”_ they all chorused — even Nat, shouting from the front room.

Steve grabs the broom and reaches in to the crevice with it. He nudges out a couple screws, an anchor, a washer, and three plastic feet for the dining room chairs. He does a sweep as far under the fridge as he can for good measure and comes up with the one doodad that Bucky had been cursing the lack of for twenty minutes.

Bucky all but pounces it, takes one of the beers, and rushes back to see if he can really finish his chair first. The others join him more slowly, and Steve — always the officer — delegates Barton to kitten-watching duty.

Things go much more smoothly, and in ten minutes, they finish up three chairs. While Steve and Sam are working on the table, Bucky sits back and finally opens his beer, feeling he deserves a few minutes of peace.

“Hey, Nat,” he asks, trying not to be too obvious about staring at Steve’s ass.

“Yeah?” she asks.

“How’d you manage to put that bookshelf together so fast?” Bucky asks. “You had the kittens with you the whole time.”

“I kept the hardware in my bra.”

The words fall like bombs into the room, silencing everyone. Sam blinks over at her, too civilized to let his mouth hang open. Barton grins. And poor Steve pauses in his work for a second before asking, “They make them with pockets?”

Bucky groans, hiding his face against his bent knees, because Steve _has_ been with women before.

Natasha’s smile is serene. “Actually, mine’s got a holster.”

Steve frowns and looks at her intently. “Really? Can I —” He snaps his mouth shut before saying anything more, his face coloring so fast that Bucky almost thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“C’mere, Cap,” Natasha says gently, crooking her finger at him.

Steve had been kneeling, sitting back on his heels as he worked. Now, he just sort of goes onto all fours and crawls over to the couch, and for one moment, Bucky hates Natasha. Then she leans forward, flashing Bucky a quick, apologetic smile, and takes hold of her T-shirt, pulling it away from her body so Steve can see up under the hem.

Sam’s sigh speaks volumes. He’s never really gotten past his crush on her, Bucky knows, even though he’s been dating the girl at the front counter where he works for a month or so.

“Huh.” Steve’s mouth is hanging open, but in concentration, not awe. “That’s not a thumb break, though. How do you draw it?”

In answer, she puts down her beer, then fishes around under her shirt — doing _nothing_ good for Bucky, and probably not for any of the other three men watching her. Her hand emerges with a compact automatic that looks like a PPK-S. She drops the magazine and puts it on the coffee table, cups her hand over the slide, and racks back to catch the chambered round.

Watching her, Bucky forgets everything but her hands and Steve, now sitting on the floor in front of her. He’d be jealous, except Natasha is fucking _gorgeous_ with a weapon in her hands, and competence like hers has always been Bucky’s weakness.

Apparently, it’s Steve’s, too.

She turns the weapon to show the empty chamber. When Steve nods somewhat blankly, she snaps the slide back in place, then puts her hand back under the shirt. She stands up, crooks her finger again, and says, “On your feet, Cap.”

He follows the order with sure movements, and Bucky’s heart skips when he realizes what Natasha’s going to be doing. For one moment, the urge to rush over and tackle Steve out of the way is almost overwhelming.

“Come at me,” Natasha says, dropping her hands to her side.

Comprehension dawns on Steve’s face as his eyebrows reach his hairline, then come back down into a furrow of determination. He meets her eyes, and Bucky knows that Steve’s not going to play games with her and go half-speed. By now, they’ve all sparred with each other at some point, and while Steve’s an old fashioned gentleman around women, when it comes to hand-to-hand, Natasha’s one of the guys.

Faster than anyone Steve’s size should be able to move, he grabs for her arms. She twists her right shoulder back and yanks up her shirt, and every fucking eye in the room goes to the movement. It has nothing to do with wanting a glimpse of her breasts. It’s just not _normal_ to get flashed in a fight, and even soldiers will track _not normal_ above other threats.

All Bucky catches is a hint of satiny black — and then adrenaline slams into his system, because she’s got her gun out, leveled at Steve’s heart. And even though she’s got her body angled so everyone can see her finger’s parallel to the slide and nowhere near the trigger, fear still makes Bucky’s world shut down for a few seconds, until she lowers the weapon.

“Not bad,” she tells Steve. “You almost got my elbow. If you hadn’t looked, you would’ve won that round.”

Steve nods, not a hint of embarrassment left in him, his chest heaving. “Smart. Thanks for demonstrating.”

“Any time,” she says, giving him a sunny smile as she puts her hand on her chest, touching the holster that’s invisible under her T-shirt. She gets a strange frown, sets her gun down on the coffee table, and then reaches up under the shirt. “Oh,” she says thoughtfully, and holds her hand out to Steve.

Automatically, he extends his hand, asking, “Huh?”

As she drops a half-dozen long bolts — the very ones they need to finish the dining room table — onto his palm, she says innocently, “Sorry. Can’t imagine where I got those.”

 

~~~

 

It’s well past midnight before Steve and Bucky are alone and undressed enough for Steve to shove Bucky down on the bed that they’d carefully tested earlier — with nothing more than sitting, since their ‘helpers’ had been with them. Bucky’s breath leaves him in a gasp, but he scoots back instead of protesting. Steve catches his waistband, unbuttons and unzips, and pulls off Bucky’s jeans while Bucky gets the rest of the way onto the bed. In the time it takes Steve to get rid of his own jeans, Bucky’s thrown off his underwear and socks and turned ninety degrees to lie properly on the bed.

When he reaches up and wraps his hands around the black iron bars of the headboard, Steve loses his breath and just stares for a bit at the long, lean lines of him, the coiled strength in his arms, the flat of his stomach going concave with the stretch, his chest rising and falling with his quick breath. By some miracle, Steve had been allowed the gift of this gorgeous man in his life — not just the man, but the heart within him, too.

Steve climbs up onto the bed, kneeling between Bucky’s thighs, and reaches up to touch his wrists, feeling the contrast of cool metal and hot skin. Then he trails his hands all the way down, over Bucky’s arms, torso, hips, and thighs, even past his shins, to wrap around his ankles. “My God, you are perfect.”

Bucky’s inhale is loud in the dimly lit bedroom. He arches his neck and closes his eyes, saying, “Been waiting all day, babe. If you’re not fucking me in the next five minutes, I’m breaking this fucking bed.”

Steve growls, recalling the heat that nearly scorched him at the store and the feverish fumble on the stairs, and he grits out, “Insubordination, soldier.”

“Sorry, sir,” Bucky drawls, full of insincerity. He lifts his head to give Steve a cocky grin.

There’s no way Steve can let that pass. He’d never thought himself particularly kinky before Bucky, but now he’s addicted to these games. He makes his way back up Bucky’s body, slides his hands up to Bucky’s wrists, and grips hard. Metal plates flex, bones shift, and Bucky lets out a gasp that Steve might have thought was pained, if not for the way his hips push up against Steve’s body.

“Fuck. Steve,” Bucky whispers.

Steve silences him with a kiss and a thrust of his own hips that has him seeing sparks. Before, he’d had vague plans about taking his time and being lazy, but now he’s seeing the merits of Bucky’s five-minute deadline, especially with Bucky writhing under him. The kiss turns into sharp nips over Bucky’s lower lip, the line of his jaw, the soft skin near his collarbone. Bucky’s moan is the most beautiful thing Steve’s heard all day —

And not nearly loud enough to hide the sharp _crack_ and _creak_ and groaning protest of stressed metal.

They freeze.

Panic shatters the haze of lust. Steve turns, barely moving, and breathes again only when he verifies that the kittens, Cap and Cy, are curled up in their armchair by the window, fast asleep. If the bed collapses, there’ll only be human casualties, and Steve and Bucky are both tough enough to survive the fall.

“We’re clear,” Steve tells Bucky, recognizing the same panic in his eyes.

Bucky exhales and slowly lets go of the bedframe. “Safe to move, y’think?”

“Should be.” Keeping his weight distributed across as much of the mattress as possible, Steve crawls sideways off the bed. He stands back, keeping his toes clear, and holds out his hands to Bucky, who rolls to the side and follows.

Then they both turn, eyeing the bed as if expecting it to collapse.

“So —”

“Fuck this,” Bucky says, leaning over to swipe up the lube on the nightstand. It’s all they need, since they got tested five and a half months ago, and Steve can’t help the way his body reacts, knowing that Bucky’s _still_ not willing to give up without one last fight.

“Couch?” Steve asks.

Bucky’s grin is filthy. “The banister’s reinforced,” he says. “How about we give the stairs a try instead?”

 

~~~

 

It’s been a long time since Bucky’s woken up on a hard surface instead of in a proper bed, and even longer since waking up like that without also being in body armor and boots. He cracks his eyes open and finds himself staring at sunlight on blond hair.

 _Steve,_ he thinks, though his usual warm fuzzy morning thoughts are tempered by confusion.

Bucky’s got his left arm draped around Steve’s body and is spooned up behind him. His right arm has gone numb from being folded under his head as a sort of pillow. They’re both draped with a blanket that’s unusually itchy, and it takes his sluggish brain a few seconds to recognize it as the afghan that’s usually on the downstairs couch.

Itchy or not, it’s more comfortable than whatever’s _under_ them.

“Steve, babe?” Bucky says, flattening his hand over Steve’s heart, feeling the slow, steady resting beat. Steve’s the living, walking embodiment of cardiac health; his resting heartbeat is practically undetectable.

“Hmm?” Steve shifts towards Bucky as he wakes and then winces. “Ow.” He opens one eye and looks around the room. “What...?”

Bucky rolls onto his back so he can prop himself up with his metal arm. The right one’s going to be hurting in about sixty seconds, once the blood flow really kicks in. “I...” is as far as he gets before he sees the bottle of lube under the coffee table. That makes him look towards the stairs, where he and Steve had proven that staircase sex _is_ possible, though stupidly distracting thanks to gravity, and for some reason they’d ended up...

“Cardboard?” Steve asks, looking down between them at what they’ve been sleeping on.

“It _looked_ comfortable, I think,” Bucky says. It’s a nice pile of flat-pack cardboard boxes, a little too small for two grown men, but when those men have been driven out of the bedroom by a bed that wants to kill them, well, beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, Bucky distinctly remembers not wanting to move after he and Steve had finally finished up at around two in the morning.

Steve rolls over to look into Bucky’s upturned face and gently pushes the hair out of his eyes. He braces himself on his hand, flat on the cardboard near Bucky’s head to lean up and kiss —

“Ah! What the —” He lifts his hand, and Bucky’s instinct is to turn his head to look. “Don’t move, babe.” Steve sweeps Bucky’s hair to the side, and there’s a soft _ting_ as something falls from the cardboard to the floor.

When Steve takes his hand away, Bucky turns. The screw that had been tangled in his hair is ominously familiar, with the same matte black coloring as the bed frame.

“No fucking way,” Bucky says, snatching at the screw. “I thought we put that together right!”

“We shouldn’t have left the bed for last.” Steve looks at Bucky, thoughtfully. “Would one screw really make that much difference?”

Bucky’s too tired to think about engineering — not that it’s ever been his talent. He settles instead for a slow, lazy kiss, morning breath and all. Then he says, “Fuck if I know. You’re the officer. Aren’t you supposed to have all the answers?”

Steve raises one eyebrow at Bucky as he responds, “An officer’s success is based solely on how well his troops _follow_ _instructions._ ”

Bucky grins and gets to his feet. He’s not twenty anymore, so it’s not particularly graceful, but he manages not to kill himself. “How about we address the insubordination in the shower, Cap? You can deal with the rest of the troops after coffee.”

“Forget the troops. This calls for a run to the hardware store to get a few brackets and a new drill bit. I’m not trusting the stuff in those kits anymore.”

“Maybe pick up a couple of... I dunno what they’d be. Ceiling anchors or something?” Bucky asks slyly, tossing the screw in the direction of the coffee table so he can hold out his hands to help Steve up.

Once standing, Steve slides his hands around Bucky’s waist and noses through his hair to his ear. “They make heavy hooks for hanging bikes. We can find the joists above the bed...”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s do that,” Bucky says, a little breathless. “You think you can fix the bed, or do we have to take it back to the store?”

“I can fix it.” Steve kisses Bucky’s earlobe. “But do me a favor, love.”

“Anything,” Bucky says, and he means it. “Want me to shoot Barton?” Barton’s his best friend, so he’d aim for somewhere not too damaging, but for Steve...

“Not yet.” Steve kisses down Bucky’s neck to the most sensitive spot, right near his collarbone. “Just don’t ever make me go back to that store again.”

**Author's Note:**

> ~~~  
> For those of you wondering:
> 
> Here's the bed: http://kryptaria.tumblr.com/post/88822280280/since-so-many-of-you-have-asked-heres-the-bed
> 
> And Nat's holster: http://kryptaria.tumblr.com/post/88877419845/for-those-of-you-wondering-this-is-natashas


End file.
